


Day 6: Perfect Date

by thebright1



Series: An Ineffable Plan: A Canon Compliant Love Story [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Feels, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Earthquakes, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Historical, Historical Fantasy, Lovesick Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sexual Angst, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22590841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebright1/pseuds/thebright1
Summary: Crowley decides that he must be a masochist. It seems very fitting, for a demon to be a masochist. It’s all about the sexual pleasure of pain, and for him, at least, thinking about his sex life is extremely painful. For almost 6000 years all he has really wanted is to bed Aziraphale. The one thing he cannot do.But can he just leave it? No, not him. And it must be because he’s a masochist. That’s the only reasonable explanation for why he is here, in the back room of the bookshop again, only days after the chocolates debacle, with a box of gourmet dates.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: An Ineffable Plan: A Canon Compliant Love Story [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620406
Comments: 2
Kudos: 104





	Day 6: Perfect Date

**Author's Note:**

> All the works in this series are also posted as a chaptered work for easier reading/downloading (and because I connected all the stories and should have done it this way to begin with): [ An Ineffable Plan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23081191/chapters/55213303)

Day 6: Perfect Date

April 25, 2003, Soho, London, UK

Crowley decides that he must be a masochist. It seems very fitting, for a demon to be a masochist. It’s all about the sexual pleasure of pain, and for him, at least, thinking about his sex life is extremely painful. For almost 6000 years all he has really wanted is to bed Aziraphale. The one thing he cannot do.

But can he just leave it? No, not him. And it must be because he’s a masochist. That’s the only reasonable explanation for why he is here, in the back room of the bookshop again, only days after the chocolates debacle, with a box of gourmet dates.

The window is cracked slightly to let in the cool night air. He can hear the sounds of traffic and people outside. He’s been half hard for the past hour and he blames the increasingly warm spring weather. It’s the ducks’ fault. The ducks, and the birds, and the rabbits. All the animals running around rutting each other. Sex is in the very air. Well, sex and exhaust fumes. The world is getting warmer. Bunch of scientific articles just came out about it. Crowley watches Aziraphale pick up another date. His personal world is getting very warm.

“What’s that one, then?” he asks, taking a sip of his wine and inspecting the label on the back of the bottle to show how he is absolutely not taking an inappropriate interest in Aziraphale’s eating habits. When did this begin to make him so bloody horny?

“Pistachio nuts,” Aziraphale says. He brings the date to his mouth. Pink lips open, date slides in so very delicately, lips close, teeth bite, and pink lips kiss away the other half. Wait for it . . . . little noise of delight. Aziraphale swallows. “Oh,” he says. “That was wonderful. These are almost better than the chocolates, I’m so glad you brought dessert.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Crowley says, distractedly. He sets the bottle down, aware he’s been holding it too long for his ruse to work. He’s kept his glasses on, but it’s not helping. A darker shade of Aziraphale makes him think of the dimmed lights in his bedroom. How would Aziraphale look, splayed there on his bed? Crowley thinks about Aziraphale there, bow tie undone, coat off, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms with that white blond hair all over. Oh, his forearms. When had he gotten hungry for a glimpse of them, thick and strong? He thinks about unbuttoning Aziraphale’s shirt . . .

He’s startled when Aziraphale plops down next to him on the sofa. He jumps a little, his limbs going every which way in surprise. “What?” he asks. He crosses his legs, aware he’s hard again. Has Aziraphale seen?

No, of course not. Aziraphale has a smile on his face. “You’re very jumpy again, dear,” he says kindly. “I said, you should try one of these.” He holds a stuffed date up to Crowley. “They’re scrumptious.” He lifts the date up to Crowley’s mouth. . . and is he going to feed him? Crowley feels like his brain may be melting down. But no, that’s Aziraphale’s hand, and that’s the date, and he is definitely lifting it towards Crowley’s mouth. Crowley sees Aziraphale’s eyes on his mouth. He opens his lips, and Aziraphale kisses the date against them. His teeth part, and when he bites down, his lips close against Aziraphale’s fingertips, and he can’t help it, his tongue has forked and it just slips out and over Aziraphale’s fingers, before sliding back in.

Aziraphale does not seem to have noticed the transgression. Crowley is not sure if that’s better or worse. “You’re supposed to chew it, dear, it won’t melt like a chocolate,” Aziraphale nudges him gently. He sits back comfortably on the sofa, picking up his glass of wine. Crowley thinks he may be having the piss taken, but he’s not sure enough to say anything. He chews, thoughtfully.  
The date is too sweet for his tastes, but the flavors are interesting. Orange, brandy. Not bad. He swallows and Aziraphale pounces: “What do you think?”

Crowley tries very hard to not think about what he was actually thinking about, and instead focus on the taste. “I liked the orange and the brandy. The rest was . . a bit too sugary.”

Aziraphale pops the other half of the date into his own mouth, closing his eyes.

Crowley considers if angels that tempt people into lust are blameless because they just don’t realize they’re doing it. They don’t feel lust, so how can they recognize it in others? Hadn’t Aziraphale told him that once? In not so many words? Crowley’s memory is hazy. He’s had a lot of wine. And other parts of his body have diverted the blood that would be going to his brain.

He’s also hit with another unexpected feeling. Longing. If it was just about the sex, he could relieve that ache any number of ways. But what he longs for is for Aziraphale to reciprocate his feelings. What he longs for is Aziraphale to put his arms around him and whisper, “I want you.” What he really longs for, deep in that empty space inside him that used to be so filled up with God, is for Aziraphale to say, “I love you, Crowley.” He longs to say it back.

Crowley blinks, suddenly sick with the feeling. His stomach churns. He turns and sees Aziraphale has gone sheet white next to him, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Angel?” he asks, concern. “What’s wrong? You look. . . . well, you look ill.”

Aziraphale blinks a few times, and then takes a few short, sharp breaths. “I just . . . I had the most strange feeling come over me.” He gets up from the sofa, takes a few steps around the room. “Just a . . . a very strange feeling. Not exactly sure what it was, maybe I’ve just got a bit of a headache? I do know that I’ve worn these human eyes down quite a bit, got a pair of reading glasses, that helped. Or maybe it’s just a bit too much sugar. Yes, these dates are very sweet, and I like that, I like it very much, but too much of a good thing can be not so good for you, you know.”

He’s babbling, Crowley realizes. Nervous. “Aziraphale?” he asks uncertainly. “What’s got you upset?”

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Nothing,” he says, “nothing whatsoever, not upset, just have so many things to do before I leave for California.”

Crowley frowns. “California? You’re going to California? In America?”

“Is there another California that you know of, dear boy?” Aziraphale asks superciliously.

Crowley huffs. “You never mentioned you had an assignment. We could have tossed for it.”

“I haven’t been to California in quite some time, I thought it might be nice to see how things have rebuilt since the earthquake.”

“Which earthquake is that?”

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. “Was there another one?”

Crowley shrugs. “Last one I remember was maybe 10 years ago? Freeway collapsed?”

“Those poor people,” Aziraphale says. “No wonder I’m being sent there.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Ten years ago,” he repeats. “Ten years ago. What one were you thinking of?”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “I don’t remember the year. It was . . . must have been just after the turn of the century? You were . . . uhm. . . . sleeping, if I recall.”

Crowley startles. “Oh, that one.” He remembers that earthquake very well. And he remembers what it did to Aziraphale. “Well, it was a hundred years ago. It’s going to be very different.” He pauses. “Are you . . . uh. . . sure you want to go alone?” He’s thinking of the tears of relief in Aziraphale’s blue eyes almost a century ago. “I could come with you, take a holiday.”

Crowley can tell that Aziraphale remembers that time, too. “Oh, oh, thank you so much for your offer, but no, dear boy. It . . . it might raise suspicions, you know.”

Crowley nods. He should be used to rejection by this point in their relationship. He’s not. It stings, even after all this time. Even though he knows Aziraphale is right. “All right, angel.” He sets down his wine glass. “Guess I’ll let you get on with whatever it is you need to sort out.”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale says quickly, “Look, let’s just . . . let’s just sit, and we can, I don’t know, watch a film? Tonight?”

“You’re not too concerned about your upcoming trip? When are you leaving?”

Aziraphale waves his hand. “Forget I said anything. It’s uhh. . . you know, a lot of things are up in the air about it.” Aziraphale has that nervous look about him. What on earth. . . ?

“OK,” he says, because what else is he going to say? When Aziraphale wants to talk . . . he’ll talk. Crowley didn’t lose all his virtues when he fell. He still has patience. Loads of it, especially where a certain angel is concerned.

“Good,” Aziraphale says. He gives Crowley a relieved smile. Crowley smiles back. “Good, that’ll get our minds off things.”

Get our minds off things.. . what is on your mind, angel? Crowley wonders. And do you know what’s on mine?

He lets the statement pass without comment and pours some more wine for them both.

*******

Crowley falls asleep part way through Miss Congeniality. He dreams.

*******

Crowley jolts awake from his decades-long nap. It’s the middle of the day and he can hear birds singing outside, and something is terribly, terribly wrong. He feels a prickling at the base of his spine, and can only think Aziraphale before he snaps his fingers, and finds himself transported halfway around the world, facing a gray dawn in a ruined city.

“Aziraphale!” he shouts. He looks around, sees people running, screaming, crying. Loose bricks tumbling down one by one, moans of pain. “Aziraphale!”

He’s getting a slightly panicked feeling in his chest. The prickling at the base of his spine is growing stronger. He takes a few steps in one direction, then a few steps in the other. He’s not certain which way to go.

“Crowley!”

He turns and he can see Aziraphale now, covered in dust and dirt. There’s blood running down the side of his face. Crowley is by his side in an instant, his hands reaching for Aziraphale’s temple, his fingers snapping away the wound before he can think. “Aziraphale, where are we, what’s happened?”

“Crowley, Crowley, thank God for you,” Aziraphale cries. He grips Crowley’s forearms tightly. Tears are welling in his blue eyes. “I need your help, please, come help. There are people trapped in the ruins, we can help them.” He turns and hurries back to the pile of rubble where a tenement house once stood. He’s pulling back pieces of rubble with inhuman strength. Crowley can hear a baby wailing. “Crowley, please, help me!”

And Crowley can only do as he’s asked. The harsh words from 1862 are forgotten. There’s only Aziraphale, asking for help from the only person he knows he can rely on. And Crowley coming through because that’s what they do.

******

“Crowley.” Aziraphale is gently shaking his shoulder. Crowley blinks a few times, takes a big deep breath. “Yeah.”

“The movie is over, you fell asleep.” Aziraphale’s voice is peaceful, kind.

Crowley nods, stretches. He blinks away the rest of his dream. Nightmare. How can he have nightmares, isn’t he a demon? Shouldn’t he be giving someone else nightmares? He purses his lips. So many questions he’d really like to ask God, if she would just talk to him again. Or talk to any of them. “Right, thanks. How was it?”

“Well, you did make a few unhappy noises-”

“I meant the movie, angel.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale pauses, seems to consider. “I would give it a solid B+.”

“Should we watch it again sometime?”

“Maybe on the next perfect date,” Aziraphale says, giggling to himself. “You fell asleep before that one, dear boy. I laughed very hard.”

Crowley gives him a slow, lazy smile, as he gets up to leave. He has no idea what Aziraphale is on about, but it doesn’t matter because this is his very best friend, his constant companion, and he’ll figure it all out eventually. He’s still got his patience.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the Ineffable Valentines challenge on Tumblr. 
> 
> And it was supposed to be fluffy smutty thoughts, but I just started writing and then there was angst and I loved it so I've left it. Crowley and Aziraphale's historical adventures today include the [1906 San Francisco Earthquake](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1906_San_Francisco_earthquake).


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